


Another Man's Woman

by proprioception (sacrificethemtothesquid)



Series: Shrapnel [4]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Plot, Established Relationship, F/M, Goddammit, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pregnancy Scares, Public Sex, Rough Sex, context is apparently my kink, furiosa is the most eaten out character in all of fandom, inappropriate vehicular activity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-11-28 19:52:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11425002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sacrificethemtothesquid/pseuds/proprioception
Summary: Joe is long dead, but his influence lingers. Max's mission is to change all that.AKA squid attempts to write a series of one-shot smutfic (snerk) without getting derailed by plot.[Edited to add: AND SOMETIMES GETS DERAILED BY PLOT]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [ Another Man’s Woman”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ll-aek-bBU) by Carbon Leaf

 

He is not the first to want her. He feels it in the way she responds to his lips, the way she presses against him, unafraid.

“I need you,” she says fiercely, “to fuck him out of me.”

She needs to be control. He can't ask why, not at that moment, not when her growl against his neck rockets straight to his crotch, but he sees it later, when he's moving deliciously against her and suddenly she's someone else, someone small and helpless and terrified. A split second later, he's been thrown on his ass and she's across the room, breathing in great, shuddery gulps and hugging herself like she's going to be sick.

It isn't what he'd call romantic. What it is, is _enthralling_.

She lets him in on her terms and her terms only, and the exclusivity, the _privilege,_ is intoxicating. She is aggressively running new tracks over old ground. He knows on some level she's using him to overwrite old memories, and he doesn’t mean to, but he thinks he is too. He's got deep wounds of his own, and together they press against each other, using their bodies to break down scar tissue. The pain is part of the pleasure, integral and incendiary.

It's rarely gentle. There's never enough time, and the world is indifferent to their need. By the time they come together, they’re starving. He’s spent days mesmerized by the sway of her hips, the way her eyes glow at him across the garage. Now that their hunger is established, now that he’s lit up like a beacon, all he wants is the smell of her on his fingers, the taste of her in his stubble.

Commanding as the warlord she might have become, she comes around the edge of his car and abruptly presses up against him, the hollow of her hips perfectly cupping the curve of his ass. “We have five minutes,” she hisses, and then her mouth is on the back of his neck, her human fingers diving up under his shirt. He’s elbow-deep in the engine, but the wrench falls through the compartment to the floor, utterly forgotten. She’s still wearing her metal arm, and the fearsome claws prick at his chest as she curls around him.

It should be terrifying. Instead, it blazes like guzzoline through his veins, and he squirms against her. “You’re sure?” he manages, and if she says no he’ll stop, but it might kill him first. His dick throbs hopefully.

“Four minutes,” she growls, and her human hand is already untangling the laces of his trousers. “Before they come back.”

He doesn’t need further encouragement.

She likes pressure, likes it when he pushes her. They’re both fighters, brawlers, bodies solid and well-accustomed to blunt force. He’s very aware of his own strength, how it could be used against her, and she is utterly confident in her ability to kill him if she chose. The physicality is part of the intimacy; she would never allow anyone else this close, and he craves the power that she wears like a memory of lingerie. He needs her to push back, to prove to him that no matter what he does, he can’t hurt her. She is blistering, but the closer he is to her flame, it’s never as close as he needs to be.

Her human fingers know exactly what to do, and she’s got his fly and the laces open with a sharp jerk that under any other circumstances would have him on the floor, utterly incapacitated.

He still sees a burst of stars, but for an entirely different reason.

This is not their first time, not in this garage, not against his car. They don't have time to fully undress, and she likes it best when he’s got her pressed up against the door or bent over the hood. It gives him better access to the places that make them both scream. He gives her a hard nudge, and somehow amid hands and lips and the grind of her body against his, they roll. She hits the side of the car with an approving grunt.

She reaches around with her human hand and tugs down his trousers. He bobs free, straining and eager, and she drops her leathers just enough to let him in.

When he reaches between her lips, she's so wet he almost loses it right there. It's the soft, drenched slick that means she's been thinking about this for hours, and at the press of his fingers she bites down hard on the arm that’s holding her upright. “Three minutes,” she gasps. “Get _on_ with it, Fool.”

His legs are shaking with want, and he pushes her up against the door, sliding easily inside and losing himself in her heat. ” _Hurry,”_ she snaps.

He loves her like this, loves her demanding and imperious. She rocks back against him, her claw dragging marks on the hood of his car and her free hand fisted in his hair. “Harder,” she growls, and any propriety he might still possess is subsumed beneath animal want. His hips snap against the hard muscles of her ass, and she growls with approval. His fingers move in slick circles, harder than he means to.

She's breathing roughly, already on the trigger point of collapse. “Come on, Fool,” she mutters, “like you _mean_ it.”

He crushes her up against the car, every thrust harsh and perfect. He's going to pay for this later, like he always does - glowing pain is expanding in waves up his thigh - but it’s worth it. His knee always hurts, and the smell of her on his fingers is the most powerful narcotic in the world. When he’s limping around in an hour, he’ll have this moment burning in his mind to distract him from the pain.

She screams when they’re alone, a sound that explodes out of her like a signal flare. In the garage, when they’re trying to be quiet, she bites down hard on his arm with a muffled, agonized sob, her human hand gripping his hair beyond the point of pain. As she clenches around him, everything goes red, and he comes in a great, shuddery mess that seems to start from the bottom of his feet, taking everything in between along with it.

Seconds later, she's swiftly tucking him still-swollen back into his pants. “Button me,” she hisses, and he fumbles with numb fingers. As soon as he’s done the last one, he hears the footsteps approaching.

“Keno, I had an idea-” Capable starts, and draws up short. “Oh.”

“He's not here,” Furiosa says calmly.

Max cannot breathe without gasping, so he just...doesn’t breathe.

Capable looks at them oddly. “...well, if you see him, can you tell him I’m looking for him?”

Furiosa nods. He’s close enough that he can see her pulse throbbing in her throat, the sheen of sweat on her skin. “I’ll let him know.”

Capable frowns. “Is, um, everything all right?”

Max may actually die. He’s sure he’s turning purple.

“Perfectly fine,” Furiosa says, and is there a tiny hitch in her voice?

“...okay.” Capable doesn’t seem convinced, but she finally turns and leaves.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Max is bent double, desperately gulping air like he’s narrowly escaped drowning. Furiosa sags against the side of the car, breathing just as hard and, god help him, _giggling_.

“Not bad for five minutes, Fool,” she murmurs, utterly satisfied with herself, and knocks her hip against his as she returns to work.

One of these times, he may actually have an aneurysm. In the meantime, his fingers are soaked with her, and it’s going to be several long, deliciously shaky minutes before he can even consider retrieving his wrench.


	2. Chapter 2

 

They have an odd game when they're alone, a sort of truth or dare. Since the day the Rock Riders arrived with Val at the lead, truth has been a tenuous thing. He hasn't lied to her, and she hasn't lied to him, but the number of times they've both danced around the truth or strategically edited it means that honesty is occasionally questioned. Consequently, during quiet moments, one of them will offer up a small morsel.

He doesn't know when it turned into foreplay, but he's not about to complain.

They're in what he guesses is now their room; the larger, Citadel-wide Council meeting is in session, and everyone from Treadmillers to Milkers is in the main garage, the only room big enough to hold them all. As always, Capable has invited them, and as always, they've declined. 

“There are two knives under the mattress,” she murmurs, breath hot in his ear. Her human hand is down the front of his trousers and he's stuck between wanting to get undressed and  _ not _ wanting her to let go.

He blinks and tries to focus. His ultimate goal is to remove her shirt, but she's doing things with her fingers that short-circuit the parts of his brain that control movement. “Know about...both of them,” he manages. “Left corner...bottom  _ hrg _ -”

It's his turn, but he's seeing stars, and if she doesn't- he is  _ so close- _

“Brake line wasn't broken yesterday,” he gasps out. “Just...just wanted to see...your  _ ass  _ in my... _ engine-” _

She moves up against him, grinding her pelvis against his thigh, and  _ why the fuck is she still wearing a shirt-  _ “I knew that.”

Shit, he's going to explode, and he's not ready but he's  _ so  _ ready, and with all the concentration he can summon, he headbutts her shoulder, and they both tumble backwards amid the blankets. Her hand is still trapped in his pants, and she gives a short, hard tug. 

It's too much, it's far too much, and he keens against her shoulder, flooding into her hand. 

When he comes back to himself, he's utterly annoyed with himself for not lasting, and even more annoyed by the smirk on her face. 

When he can breathe, he sets about unlacing her leathers. She props herself up on the pillows, leaning back smugly and making no effort to help.

That's just fine with him. She thinks she's won. Now that his head is starting to clear, he can implement his own plan of attack. 

He tugs the leather down, licking a slow trail along the inside of her hipbone. “Got three pistols in the car.”

“Left visor, holster under the -  _ ah  _ \- steering wheel…” She frowns, eyes flickering as she tries to ignore his gradual descent. “...glove box…?”

He hums against her thigh. “Strapped under the passenger seat.”

She doesn't miss the symbolism of his gun hiding beneath her seat, taut and ready to fire, and her pupils go wide with heat. “Should’ve told me,” she grits out. “Might’ve... _ needed _ it-"

He sinks his face into her tuft of wiry hair and inhales deeply, savoring the dark, musky sweetness of her. She's already quivering; he can smell the tempting dampness urging him below.

His mouth waters. 

“Valkyrie,” he breathes against her lips, “once proposed a threesome.”

There's a beat as the statement sinks in, and then she throws her head back and  _ howls  _ with laughter. “Of  _ course _ she did-”

He takes advantage of the distraction to give her one long, slow lick, and the choking transition from laugh to gasp is  _ delicious. _

_ “Fuck _ , Fool,” she groans, and then narrows her eyes. “Did she really?”

He lightly tongues his way around her opening. “Mhm.”

Her hips give an involuntary jerk, and her human hand is suddenly tangled up in his hair. “When did-  _ when- _ ”

“Last visit.” She's dripping wet, and it's all he can do not to bury his face in her and drink until neither one of them can breathe. He's a creature of the desert, and the call of moisture goes deeper than his bones, bringing him in like an inescapable lure.

“What did...you  _ say _ ?” This, ground out. Control is a razor wire and she's shredding herself trying to hold on. 

He's got about thirty seconds before she gets frustrated enough to be blazingly, gorgeously angry.

“Not good at...sharing,” he drawls, adding the lightest pressure of a finger, and she bucks up against his face, growling. “Didn't want…” another finger, resting just outside, “...competition.”

“Mothers, fucking-  _ fuck,  _ Fool-" Her hand in his hair abruptly tightens, hard enough to spark tears in his eyes. “ _ Fuck- _ ”

There it is, the incandescent fury that he loves so much. He drops his mouth onto her, sucking the sharp sweetness from her skin just as he pushes both fingers deeply inside. The noise she makes fills him, surrounds him, consumes him.

He can feel her building up like an oncoming storm, and he welcomes it as it crashes over them both, his face drenched and his fingers trapped by her violent, shuddering hold. He is nowhere near sated - he's never sated, not with her, not ever. He is an addict, and he drinks until she shoves him away, breathless and trembling. 

Later, he's slumped across her chest -  _ why is she still wearing that fucking shirt - _ and savoring the taste of her in his mouth. She's heavy-lidded and drowsy.

“I knew about the gun under the seat.” He looks up and her lips quirk with satisfaction. “I just wanted to hear you say it.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oops. Not smut, but kind of fits with the overall theme? (Also I couldn't think of a title, so it's easier just to shoehorn it in here. Lazy, lazy Squid.)

The time he thinks she's pregnant, it almost kills him.

He sees the ochre streak on her thigh, the color of the red dust down below the stone towers, the same afternoon she'd been massaging a spot above her hipbone. “Fuck,” she says mildly. “Thought it was that.”

She doesn't pay it further attention, but it gets firmly lodged in his brain. He doesn't know if he's noticed it before, and now that he _has_ , his whole body short-circuits. He _should_ have noticed it, should have been counting along with her because that's what a responsible partner _does_ . She'd said Joe made sure, but the girl who died and the girl they call Dag both got pregnant, so it's _possible_. Just because Furiosa says it isn't-

There's a roar rising in his ears, and she's looking at him with an expression of amused expectation, but he doesn't know for _what_ , and suddenly he needs to be _away_.

He almost leaves entirely, but that would spawn far more questions than he can possibly answer. Instead, he hides in the garage, burrowing into his car as if physically becoming part of the engine can erase the noise in his head. He hasn't noticed it before, he _didn't even think to look_ , he'd trusted her at her word, but they hadn't meant to make _Sprog_ either-

He can't avoid her forever, despite making a truly valiant effort. When they go to bed, she puts her arms around him and tucks him into her warmth, and he _wants_ to be with her. He _tries_ , god how he tries, but the more he thinks about it, the more self-conscious he is, the more aware he is of his failure. There's the old adage of there being only enough blood for one or the other, and right now, every single drop of his blood is firmly, frustratingly pooled in his brain. Panicking, he puts his mouth to her with such fervor that when she comes, it's a sudden, startled gasp.

“...you can say no, Fool,” she says after, her human fingers carded fondly through his hair.

He doesn't want to say no. He never wants to say no. He's just...preoccupied. Severely.

He has no idea what birth control looks like these days. It had been hard enough to come by before, which is how Sprog came to be in the first place. He’s sure there are some sort of potions or powders or herbs, because such things have always existed, but he has no idea where to procure them or how much they cost. Cheedo would know, but he does _not_ want this to be a conversation he has to have, not with her, not with Furiosa, not with _anyone_ . He doesn't want to admit it’s something he's been thinking about. He doesn't want to admit it’s something he should have been thinking about all along and _hasn't_ . He doesn't want her to know that he doesn't quite believe her, because trust is a finite and delicate thing. Furthermore, just because it wasn't possible with Joe doesn’t mean it's not possible at all. He has a proven record of his own fertility, but bringing _that_ up would entail a larger discussion of the how and what, and of all the things he definitely doesn't want to talk about, Jessie and Sprog are at the very top of his list.

He tries not to think about it, to lock it away in the furthest recesses of his mind, and he very nearly succeeds. It doesn't come back to him until she's cornered him in the garage shadows. It's been too long: the work and the world have been brutal, and they're both aching for release. She engulfs him like a dust storm, hot and hard and inescapable. More than anything, he's _missed_ her, missed the smell and taste of her, the way his mind goes soft and blank when she's around him.

He's teetering on the precipice when it hits him, and he's already so close to the edge that he loses himself completely in the clenching shock. Helplessly, he feels himself spurting out, caught in the sweet grip of her body, and for one stuttering second, he almost throws up.

She's riding her own crest, and when he abruptly freezes, she loses the rhythm of it, a misaligned, unsatisfying finish for them both, and she growls in frustration, slamming her fist into the side of his car.

The roar is back in his ears, a spearing howl of panic that takes over his entire body. He can't move, because moving will confirm what he's done. He didn't even _think_ about it, he just did it, he let himself be taken over, and it _can't be undone_ -

This is the end of his life, right here, a few seconds of animal pleasure. He's ruined himself, he's ruined _her_ , he's ruined a life that's not even _here_ yet-

He is actually going to puke. He leans on her, nauseous vertigo draining the strength from his bones. He can't pull out, he can't-

“Hey,” she says, justified annoyance suddenly gone from her face. “Fool. Look at me. What is it?”

He can't say. He can't tell her. He can only stand there as she slips free, dripping with the exact thing he explicitly didn't mean to happen.

 

****

 

He counts. By god, he counts, and he watches. Every moment of Jessie’s pregnancy burns in his mind, the signs they hadn't noticed, the signs they couldn't ignore, and all the changes that happened after that. They'd been young, they'd been _so_ young, and they hadn't been stupid, but they'd been so selfishly, blindly, utterly in love that anything else was only a peripheral haze. They hadn't meant to make Sprog, but they hadn't _not_ meant to, and once they had, they'd embraced it with the excitement and terror of the truly unprepared. He'd read all the books, talked to his colleagues that were fathers, eagerly gathering every scrap of information he could.

He thought he'd forgotten. He thought he'd cauterized that part of his brain. Apparently, he _hasn't_.

He counts the days. He watches her, scrutinizing every aspect of her behavior and health, terrified of seeing the signs but even more afraid of _missing_ them. Grogginess could be fatigue. Her appetite is generally low anyway, but suddenly he's convinced it's nascent morning sickness. A moment leaning against the car is obviously, definitely dizziness.

“What is _up_ with you?” she asks, a concerned twist to her lips.  

He chokes on his own saliva.

Her brow furrows. “Whatever it is, you know you can talk to me, if you want.”

He can't, he _can't-_

He counts. Ten days pass, then twenty. When she's not looking, he scours the bedding, desperate for even the smallest drop of blood.

Thirty days. Forty. He's losing his mind. His body is screaming for him to leave, to flee, anything, _anything_ to relieve this awful pressure, but if it's happened, he shouldn't abandon her. He couldn't. It’s going to kill him, but he won’t leave her. He _can't_.

When it's been eight weeks with no sign of her bleeding, he cracks. “Have you…?” he manages, and makes a vague, possibly crude gesture.

She gives him a strange look. “Of course not,” she says, and he _shatters._

“Is _that_ why you've been absolutely impossible lately?” She's looking at him with intense concern, and if anything, it's _worse_ , and he needs to bolt but she's trapped him in her stare.

He can't breathe. He can't even _move_ , and he _needs_ -

“Max,” she says quietly. “We've talked about this.”

They have, they _have_ , but it wasn't final, it _couldn't_ have been-

He makes some sort of choking noise.

“I told you,” she says, slowly and calmly, “I _can't_.”

“Don't _know_ ,” he croaks.

“I _do_ , though.” This, a little sadly, and she shoves her human hand under her arm, hugging herself. “Unless...Max - is this...is it because you...want to?” There's a hard set to her jaw, and she's holding herself like she's bracing for a fatal impact.

He knows what she's asking, and the truth is that he _can't_ . He absolutely can't. He’s going to lose her eventually - that's an inevitability he can't look at, as terrifying and blinding as the sun  - and if they have a child, if they _lose_ that child-

He won't be destroyed, no. _Destroyed_ implies something tangible, implies pieces made from a whole. He's already shattered pieces; if this happens, if it happens like it did before, there won't even be enough of him left to break. He'll just evanesce like a solar flare, a single, bright, crackling burst, and then he'll be nothing.

He'd told her hope is a mistake, and he'd believed it. Hope means looking forward. It means knowing there's something better. The stability of the Citadel, the steadiness of her gaze - these have disarmed him, dissolved him, and he's let himself be taken. It was an addiction at first, the blind craving of a wretch desperate for water, but he's mellowed. He's softened. He's let himself want.

He's let himself _hope_ . On some level, he's accepted that she'll be there, that at the end of the day, she'll invite him into her bed and it will feel like he belongs there. He can't make the mistake of thinking they'll be together forever, because he knows better, but he's looked at her and _hoped_.

The indifferent Waste has never been what hurts him most. What's hurt him most has been the things he's let himself _love_ . He _loved_ Sprog, loves him still, feeling the baby's absence worse than any wound he's ever had.

If that happens with Furiosa, if they make a child together, he will love it. He has no doubt, and he has no doubt that love will be his utter, final end.

“No?” It's not a question, not at all, but his voice is shaking so hard he can barely get the word out.

“It's not possible,” she says again. “I told you that.”

He can't articulate how she's wrong. She doesn't know, she _can't-_

He sees her swallow hard, her eyes slipping away from him, to the ceiling, to any point that’s not his face. “He tried harder on me,” she finally says. “More than anyone else. The Mechanic tried so many things, and it _still_ -"

He hears what she can't say. He whines a little, both in pain and in sympathy.

“Mari said it was all of us,” she says quietly. “Maybe it was Joe, but it's also me. Val, Tamar - it's all of us. The Green Place went sour long before anyone knew to leave.”

He can't breathe.

“In a way, it’s saved me,” she says. “If Joe had- if it had taken...three times was all anyone could have. Maybe he'd have given me more, but... Women died, they bled, they _drowned_ -" She sucks in a breath. “It got me out. It got me here.” She raises an eyebrow. “Look at me, Fool. Look who I was, who I _am_. I don't know what kind of mother I'd be; I don't want to know, and I will never, ever have to find out.”

He blinks.

“I don't bleed,” she goes on. “Not in a way anyone can predict. Sometimes it happens ten days apart; sometimes a hundred days, or five hundred, or fifty. It's never meant anything. The system doesn't work like it should, and if it could possibly be fixed, the Mechanic would have fucking _found_ the way.” She drops her gaze. “At the end, he wasn't even using Joe’s. He tried his own, the Imperator Prime, anyone he could get a sample from, just to see if it took.” She frowns. “I told you it won't happen. Do you understand now?”

He does, and he hates himself for even asking. He's horrified by what’s been done to her, by the way she tries to say it casually even though her human hand is tucked tightly under her armpit so he can't see it shake. What he doesn't understand is why she's even let him in-

Well. He didn't intend to let her in either - he'd fought it the whole way, desperate and panicking, and on some level, he's _still_ fighting it - but here they are.

“Sprog,” he finally manages. “I can't, I _can't_ -”

“I know,” she says. “And you _won't_.”

He still can't breathe, still can't move. There should be some relief, some absolution, but there _isn't_ , and with a wave of sickening clarity, he realizes he's almost _disappointed_ . He can't, he _can't_ , but if he could, if he _ever_ could, if he could overcome that impossible hurdle of acid, marrow-deep pain...it would only ever be with her.

“Fool,” she says softly. It's an endearment, an assurance.

“...do you, mm…” The words that form in his head swell up in his throat. “...ever wonder…?”

“No,” she says, and the answer is sharp and firm. “I don't.”

They stand there in the room, his question and her statement hanging between them.

“..is this going to come up again?” she asks quietly, and there's an aching vulnerability in her voice. “Because-”

It's almost impossibly hard for her to talk about. It's almost impossibly hard for them both.

“Can't say it won't,” he admits.

She nods, resigned but accepting. “Are we good for now, at least?”

He's not, not really. He feels like raw road rash, skin torn off and flesh quivering with embedded sand. She looks like she feels the same way. “Think so,” he allows.

The tension in her shoulders eases by a minute amount. “If you want to come back to bed...you're more than welcome.”

It's an echo of what she'd once said out on the Salt, when she'd offered a bike when she was really offering herself. He'd tried to hold himself back, and for a few hours he'd actually managed, but that was when they'd known each other only a handful of days. It's been thousands of days since then, and her body has become as familiar as his own; he can't even pretend to hesitate at her invitation, not when he can feel the desperate sadness she's swallowing back at the possibility of his absence.

They go to bed, and when she opens her arms, his hunger is overwhelming. He's been starving for her touch, starving for the taste of her and the confident slide of her skin against his own.

When he's at the apex, she rocks hard against him, her fist in his hair dragging their foreheads together. “It's okay, Fool,” she breathes. “It's okay.”

He trusts her. From the moment they'd made eye contact, he's had no option not to, and she hasn't once let him down.

With a wild noise that shreds its way up his throat from the bottom of his lungs, he comes, hard enough that for several long moments he can't breathe and bright stars flood his vision. She's right there with him, shuddering and biting down on his shoulder, wrapped around him as if she'd absorb him whole if she could.

In the afterglow, as he's softening inside her, she says quietly, “Maybe...I mean. With you. If it could even- but _only_ -”

He knows how much that admission costs her, the weight of what those words mean. He knows _exactly_.

“I know,” he says, and he _wants_ to say _me too_ , but that is a sentence he cannot possibly drag into the air, just like he wants to tell her he loves her, but somehow physically _can't_. He knows she can't say it either, and maybe those words aren't something that can be said in the world this has become. More than anything, he's comforted by how she fits against him, by how she's the better self he didn't know existed.

“You haven't slept,” she says, and he suddenly feels it, every second of the last fifty-seven days like a weight in his bones.

“Sleep,” she says, and her voice is the same as it was in the War Rig, when he'd been smothered by dreams and come up swinging. “It's all right.”

It's not, but it also _is._


	4. Chapter 4

 

It occurs to him that for the overwhelming majority of the times they fuck, it somehow involves the car.

It's oddly practical: it is, for the most part, a gently sloping vertical surface with several convenient horizontal planes. It's private when they need it to be, and it's definitely not when they...don't. It's mobile. It's comfortable. Generally, it's the only thing around them even approaching furniture.

He is definitely, vehemently in favor.

He's thinking this as he's on his back on the roof, the metal hot as hell under his naked ass and Furiosa even hotter on top.

“You,” she hisses, “are _not_ paying attention.”

If he were capable of speech, he'd strongly refute that, but he isn't, so he can't. She's trapped him between her body and his stomach, and she’s devastatingly slick and devastatingly _not moving_. As much as he tries arching his hips, she's got him pinned with just enough pressure to be utterly maddening.

When they fuck, it’s always a power play. She is unrepentantly dominant and demanding as hell. She wants as much of him as he can give, and then at least another measure more. Even if he’s on top, she’s the one in control, and that is perfectly fine; as soon as she makes her intent clear, his brain completely shuts down, all the blood in his body rushing to his dick. They both have their traumas, and skirting the edge of pain and pleasure is part of the process. They test the limits like the warriors they are, pressing to find the weaknesses that in any other situation, any other contact, they’d ruthlessly exploit. If he inadvertently does something that triggers deeply-embedded defensive instincts, she’ll have him on the floor and bleeding before he draws a second breath. At first, those moments dropped him like he’d fallen off a cliff, and it took days for both of them to recover, but they’re learning.

He’s mapping the edges of her. If her consent is not eager and aggressive, he wants no part of it. When she does consent that way, he loses his fucking _mind_.  

She finally moves, a single, slow drag up the length of him, and as she nears the head, he bucks, desperately trying to sink inside, but she’s maliciously just out of reach. He tries to swallow back an agonized whine, but she hears it anyway, and _fuck_ , she grins, all feral teeth and blazing eyes. She leans down, lips just grazing his own, her breath hot in his mouth. He’s all but drooling with with want, his tongue swollen and ready, but she nips at the stubble on his upper lip and in a slow, deliberate movement stretches up and away.

The first few times he and Furiosa were together, Jessie hung in the shadows, a silent third watching but not participating. He's fucked when he's had to, for supplies or safety, but every time, he'd been desperately thinking of his wife's soft warmth, hiding himself in the memory of her coy sweetness. He'd been so damn young with her, full of masculine hubris and blather, and she'd let him take her like a hero in a sweeping romance. He'd felt like a man, strong and confident and virile, and in the chasm of her absence, he’d withered.

There are many words he can use to describe Furiosa. _Sweet_ is not one of them. At first, he'd been afraid to let her get too close, that he might confuse them in his mind, some part of his memories of Jessie getting tangled up with his reality of Furiosa.

He definitely does not get them tangled up.

She slides up him again, angling her hips so her clit takes most of the friction. Her eyelids flicker, and that’s even _worse -_ he’s dripping, pressure building past the point of pain, and _fuck_ she may actually kill him this time. Her stump is a hard line under his jaw, her human hand roughly grabbing his hair; it’s an echo of the position they’d once had, where he’d had her throat in his hand and a muzzle on his face. In that moment, she’d meant to kill him, and he’d meant to escape.

It’s sort of the same right at this second, except only the escape he’s seeking is through the heat of her cunt.

The car. Back to the car. He is a hairsbreath from completely losing control and exploding all over his own stomach, but she’s not done having her fun, and in the trade-off between a mind-blowing orgasm right now and a mind-blowing orgasm when she’s ready for him to have one…

A trade off. It exists. He’s sure it does, and he’s sure there are perfectly good reasons that go along with it, but she’s sliding down to the root of him, and all he can do is grit his teeth and take a few deep, shuddery breaths

The car is safety. The car is mobility. The car is a means of escape and independence. It’s been burnt, battered and stolen. He’s fought what felt like half the Wasteland to get it back. It’s been his solace, his shell. He’s retreated into it when the outside world becomes too overwhelming, and it’s always too overwhelming.

He’d pursued Jessie. He’d wooed her, to use the old word. He’d brought her bunches of flowers he’d scavenged from the side of the road, wheedling scraps of her time like a child begging for an extra cookie. After- he’d locked himself in the car, locked himself inside, turning everything off like switching off the lights. He’d clenched up like a wound, his busted knee a metaphor for the rest of his self, limping and damaged beyond repair.

Being with Furiosa is nothing like that; they’d crashed into each other like two cars careening out of control, and they _keep_ crashing, locked together in a road race where neither one can see the end. He’d had the concept of a future burned out of him, but even then, he’d never expected anything like this. He hadn’t wanted to rejoin the living; he’d been utterly committed to leaving everything behind, because he’s poison, leaving a trail of death in his path. He can’t stand to form new connections, not if he’s just going to burn them in the end.

Furiosa is exactly the same way, and when two raw, smoldering points come together, they form a weld.

In the meantime - if she’d give him the slightest leeway, the barest hint of space, she’s slick enough he can just, maybe-

“Fool,” she breathes, her human fingers tightening in his hair, and it’s the sharp distraction he needs.

He doesn’t know how it got started, the two of them and the car. The first time, they were still awkward and wary, but the garage had been empty, and he’d rolled the crawler out to grab a length of wire, and accidentally ended up with his legs bracketing her shins. She’d stared, inscrutable, before taking the wire in her hand and tapping it against his knee as though thinking. The green of her eyes glowed as she’d murmured, “What’ll you do to get this, Fool?”

It was the first time she’d been that bold outside her room, and the next thing he knew, he’d been on his knees with his face pressed to her cunt, sucking the sweet juice from her body as she sprawled into the passenger seat.

He can’t quite say she’s an exhibitionist, or that he is either, but there’s a certain thrill in being out in the open, in feeling _safe_ enough to let his guard down that way. Undressing completely is complicated and time-consuming; they’ve perfected the art of getting just naked enough to connect without the hassle of dealing with boot laces and the buckles of her prosthesis. It works best when he’s behind her, when he can lose himself inside her and still have the freedom to let his fingers work her into a drenched, shivery mess.

Somehow, it’s better when the car is involved. When they’re in her room, there’s almost too much skin, too much vulnerability, a far greater likelihood of something going wrong. He’ll accidentally go too deep, or they’ll find themselves in a position that is suddenly not okay.

She fights it. The most recent incident, he’d bottomed out in the wrong way, and there’d been a sudden, defensive blaze in her eyes. He'd immediately stopped, pulling out and backing off before he got a foot to the solar plexus, but the blow never came. “Don't you dare,” she'd snapped. “Just- slowly.”

She’s trained to aggression, to be primed for violence at all moments. She doesn’t have any other emotional vocabulary. When she feels threatened, she lashes out, her offensive strikes immediate and deadly. She reacts to physical danger or emotional trepidation in exactly the same way, and although he’s pretty sure it’s not exactly healthy, he lets her use him to bludgeon herself into submission. He is by no means an expert on healthy behavior himself, and more importantly, he’s keenly aware that he is the only person she trusts enough to even try it.

She’d breathed hard for a few moments, glaring at a memory as if she could turn it to ash with the power of her mind, and then growled, “Do it.”

He’d gone completely soft, so he’d dropped his mouth to her collarbone and slowly kissed his way down her body, teasing the tips of her breasts until he felt her relax. She’d pulled him back up and swallowed his mouth with her own, reaching for him and stroking until he was straining and ready.

They switched places, and she’d dug her fingernails into his shoulders as she lowered herself onto him. He could tell she was still fighting it, the stiffness in her shoulders and the iron clench of her jaw, but like everything she did, she ground her teeth and muscled through, and then tentatively rocked them both to a quiet, satisfying finish.

Right at this second, he muses, there is nothing tentative about her. She’s hovering over his dick, her pupils blown wide as she teases him. Somewhere, a tiny, vindictive nugget in his skull is gleefully delighted to know she’s as close to the edge as he is, the tiny way he can see her biting the inside of her lip to maintain control. Moments like this are healing for them both: she chooses when to let him in, and his brain goes numb in a way that’s comparable only to the bone-rattling acceleration of his car.

They’re away from the Citadel by a dozen klicks, so she’s taken the liberty of removing her boots and leathers. They’re on enough of a butte to see any oncoming threat, and hidden enough by dry scrub that even a decent spyglass isn’t going to pick up the matte of the car’s paint against the orange glare of the setting sun. Her stump is bare, her blouse hiked up above her breasts. His shirt is somewhere beneath the bumper, his trousers somewhere around the tops of his boots, dangling over the windshield.

He gets weird about feeling trapped. Any kind of constriction around his wrists, any unwanted pressure on his face, and he drowns in panic. She knows this, and somehow manages to skirt the edges of it in a way that feels both deliberate and effortless. Just like she knows he’ll stop when she needs him to, the automatic, lizard parts of him trust her not to hold him down in a way he can’t escape.

He could throw her off right now, if he chooses to. She’s got the speed, but he’s got the mass, and the roof of the car is enough of a slope that it wouldn’t take much to overbalance her.

The way she’s grinding against him, he seriously considers it.

She’s playing dirty, exploiting all the thing she knows make him weak. The sight of her rising above him like a goddess, the stark contrast between tan limbs and the milkiness of skin hidden from the sun: it lights him up like a glow plug, a steady heat that burns in his stomach and pools in his muscles.  

He may actually be dying, but he will always, always say yes.

“Fool,” she breathes, and he’s managed to distract himself enough that he doesn’t spill into her immediately when she abruptly envelopes him in her impossibly slick heat.

He’s ready for this. He’s been aching for this. His thumb finds her clit, and she groans, her hips finally, mercifully moving against his own. He loves the strong lines of her torso, her lean, deadly thighs and the way she confidently rocks her hips like he’s something she’s claiming, like every stroke of his finger is exactly what she’s due. He craves giving this to her, as if one orgasm can make up for one nightmare; as far as he’s concerned, the backlog is significant, but he’s more than willing to work on it.

She loses her rhythm at the same moment he loses his own, coming down on him hard with sharp, shuddery thrusts. His entire being is is locked inside her, his consciousness and everything he is flooding out and up and over as he come and comes and comes.

They’re both shivering with the aftershocks as she collapses onto his chest. Her lips find the side of his neck and lazily mouth against it, fond and satisfied. He can’t move; he can barely even breathe. He’s always lost after the climax, when he’s still tucked inside her, lingering in the impossibly hot cavern of her. He never wants to move, never wants to leave, but despite himself, he softens, sensitive and raw. She makes a small noise of protest as he slips out, but he’s helpless. She’s drained him utterly dry, and he’s boneless in the aftermath.

He’d tried to keep count of the number of times the car has been involved when they’ve fucked, but not once has he been able to keep the tally in his head.

But he definitely knows it’s better with the car.


End file.
